


Bedtime Story

by JuniperGreen



Series: I Never Promised You an Open Heart or Charity [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bad Parenting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Guns, Jim is worse, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Sebastian's father's a dick, Violence, cuddling (or something similar), mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperGreen/pseuds/JuniperGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim wants a bedtime story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime Story

**Author's Note:**

> MorMor Oneshot #2
> 
> un-beta'd

Moriarty crawling into my bed in the middle of the night never meant something good.

“Tiiiiger,” he whistled, tugging at my blanket. 

“Hmph,” I answered. 

“Are you awake?”

“Hmph.” No sense in fighting, he wouldn't go away before he got what he wanted. I lifted the blanket to let him crawl under it. He pressed his slim body against mine, completely naked and cold like the snake he was. He walked his fingers up my arm in a mocking of a nursary rhyme. _Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger by the toe._

“Tell me a story.”

Oh, it was one of those nights. I let out a sigh.

“Once upon a time there was a fierce and brutal cat...”

He pinched my nipple. “Not Kali's Kitten again. I've heard it often enough.”

“I thought you liked hearing about how I got my scars?”

“Yes, but tell me about the other ones.”

“Hm... Once upon a time there was a soldier named...”

This time he bit my nipple. Hard. “Ouch!”

“I know how you got you gunshot-wound. Tell me something I don't know yet.” His fingers touched a small scar high up on my right thigh. It was not longer than the nail on my small finger, very thin. Most people didn't even notice it. Jim did, of course.

“That's not very interesting, Boss.” _And you bloody well know it already._ Like he knew everything. His research about his employees was flawless.

“Tut, nonsense. There is a story there. Tell me.”

I grunted. I could strangle him or just break his neck – but was I really ready to live with the consequences? It was just a story after all.

“Once upon a time there was a boy. He was about six or seven years old, living in a strange and exotic country. One day he fell off a tree, scratched his leg and got a scar. The end.”

“Se-bast-i-an! I know when you're lying.” He bit my nipple again, working the tender skin between his teeth.

“Ouch, okay. Okay! You can let go now. Dammit!”

He blew a kiss on the stinging flesh. “Tell it right, Sebastian.”

“Okay. Once upon a time there was a boy. He was about six or seven years old, living in a big house in a country far, far away. Most of the time he was running wild. His mother was busy caring about the house and his sisters and all the servants, his father was busy being a very important man. The boy befriended on of the servants' sons, a year or two older than him, and just as wild. Together they developed all kinds of mischievous plans. They stole the clothes of the female servants when they were bathing, and ogled the girls running around naked, searching their dresses. The girls were teasing, of course, but the boys didn't know that.”

“Did the boys kiss?”

“No, Boss, that's not one of those stories.” Bloody hell. “Will you let me tell it or not?”

“Go on.” He snuggled his head against my shoulder. Now _that_ was really disconcerting.

“Um. Yeah. The boys stole the girls dresses, they hid the cook's favourite pans and knives, exchanged salt for sugar, all kinds of practical jokes boys play. One day one of them had a very stupid idea. The boy's old man was gone for the day and had left his precious revolver in his office. The boy was told never to touch the gun, but he knew exactly where it was. It was a fascinating, pretty thing, silver, with an ivory handle. Real ivory, you know? The boy wanted to touch it, just once. Feel like a grown-up. 

“The office was locked, but the boys knew there was a window that didn't shut completely. The boys broke in, taking the revolver and a few bullets. They had a little place in the woods where they wanted to shoot at trees. Or maybe small animals. Whatever. They thought they had all the time in the world, the old man would be gone till late in the evening.

“And the boys shot at trees and scared some small animals, their aim not good enough to actually hit anything that moved. Then one boy missed his aim completely. Instead of a tree, he hit the other boy in the leg. Just a graze, really, but the boys were shocked. It was the servant's son who missed. He wailed like it was him who got shot. The other boy did not cry. He never did. Terrified, the boys went home again, wanted to get the cook or maybe one of the girls to tread the wound and keep quiet about it – it wasn't all that deep, after all, the bleeding had already stopped.

“But when they came home, the boy's old man was standing in the hall, talking to some guests. He saw the sniffling servant-boy with the revolver in his hand, the revolver the boy was told he should never touch. He saw his son, blood all over his trousers. He did not say a word to the boys, but let the butler take them into his office.

“He let us- He let the boys wait for hours. When he finally came, he still didn't say a word. He took the revolver and brought the boys out into the backyard. He put the gun into m- the boy's hands. 'You want to learn how to shoot?' he asked. 'You want to shoot something?' He took the other boy, who was wailing again, and let him to the garden-wall. 'Well then, shoot,' he said. 'Shoot him. He shot you, did not hit you very well. Let's see if your aim is any better.' The boy hesitated. His father came to him, raised his arm, and ordered again. 'Shoot!' The boy shot.” 

I took a breath. Jim had started to rub my flank. Soothing? No, definitely not. 

“The boy missed. The bullet landed somewhere in the wall, not far to the left of the other boy's head. The servant-boy crumpled on the floor, sobbing. The other boy still did not cry. He had learned long ago that crying meant tasting the belt till he stopped. Better to not even start. 

“The old man kicked the servant-boy back into the house again. He was gone the next day, just like his mother. The boy never found out what happened to them. He did not want to know. 

“This evening, he'd earned himself a beating nonetheless. The bullet left a small scar. The boy's aim got better during the years. The End.”

Jim stopped rubbing my flank and painted small circles around the scar with his fingers. “You know, Sebastian, you deserved this.”

The beating? The scar? The old man's wrath? All of the above? “Probably.” _He_ would have shot the servant-boy, no doubt about it. Or let me shoot at him till I hit him. 

“No, _definitely_.” He kissed me, a light touch of lips against lips. “You should have known better than to disobey. You have learned your lesson, haven't you?”

I didn't answer. It wasn't needed. He kissed me a second time, still feathery light, letting his lips linger just for the fraction of a moment.

“You never miss your aim.”

It wasn't a question, but I shook my head nonetheless.  
I tried to press my lips against his again. But he got up and left me lying alone, his side of the bed as cool as his body had been.


End file.
